The Blue-Painted Distance
Torn are the pages from the calendar,
the days fluttering past the train’s window,
the speed of which has yet to be perceived
for at each seat more immediate
are the books about to be opened,
the wax-papered sandwiches eaten,
the bottles of strawberry soda consumed.
The journey between birth and death
are the stations of joy and sorrow
or simple idleness
when what remains in relief
can be as inconsequential as an unexpected
delay that finds you wandering
through an afternoon of an old museum.
Indistinguishable are the adornments
from useful implements,
the ill-lit displays of rocks and shards
you circle as if in a maze,
remembering the oddity of it,
startling upon a haunting diorama.
Crouched around a glowing fire pit,
a family of hunters and gatherers
huddles beneath sheltering skin.
All around are the articles of abundance—
meat slabs draped like heavy
blankets on a rack,
geometric rows of threads
dangling from a loom.
The ephemeral made tangible,
tongues of cellophane flames
cleverly quiver to convey
a sense of warmth.
Pulled into the scene
you follow the trail of smoke
across the blue-painted
distance of mesas dotted with bison.
Wigs of black twigs—
someone’s idea of indigenous hair—
hide the faces of the elders.
Strapped onto its mother’s back,
the lone baby stares unblinkingly at the sky.
No one has thought to shut
its eyes against the sun, the glare,
the rolling cloud waves of hooves and dust,
the flies that will surely come.
2020-10-06 00:17:25
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